


Connor

by Antigone_Sycamore



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 11:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15290766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antigone_Sycamore/pseuds/Antigone_Sycamore
Summary: Connor is traumatized. Missing scene.a.k.a., Of course, Hank realizes much earlier than Connor that Connor is about to go deviant.





	Connor

***

The android hasn’t moved or said anything since they got back to the car. He suddenly appears lethargic, exhausted even, as he rests his head against the window of the passenger seat of Hank’s old car. His eyes remain closed, which, at least to Hank, is unprecedented. His hands rest in his lap and he hasn’t moved since Hank started the car. Which, for all his constant fidgeting and the very odd un-robotic nervousness energy Connor usually emits, is unprecedented as well. 

Hank shoots worried sideway glances at Connor’s still form as he stirs them through Detroit’s slow rush hour traffic. He has never seen Connor not move. It is unsettling. He leans forward to check the LED at Connor’s right temple. It hasn’t returned to its usual cool blue since they left the Startford Tower, but keeps flickering uneasily between red and yellow. 

“Connor?”

No reaction.

“Connor?” 

Hank reaches out one hand to gently brush it against Connor’s uninjured shoulder. The android jumps in his seat at the sudden contact. His eyes snap open and he blinks a couple of times in unfocused confusion. Hank withdraws his hand.

“Connor-,” he tries again. The android finally turns towards him, but he still doesn’t look at Hank. His glassy brown eyes appear even more doe-eyed than usual, making him look almost childlike. It is a stark contrast to his usual sleek appearance. There are stains of blue blood on his jacket, right around the spot where the bullet punctuated his chest. Hank knows there is an exit wound on his back too. The LED spins red. Something deep in Hank’s gut twists painfully at the sight. He flinches as he redirects his eyes to the road.

“You need to calm down,” Hank tells him quietly, voice low.

Connor’s gaze briefly flickers over his face but he won’t meet his eyes. He swallows visibly before he speaks.

“I’m okay.” It sounds broken. Shaky. Uncontrolled. _Emotional._

Hank narrows his eyes at him. None of this makes any sense. The other night Connor had defiantly stepped into Hank’s gun, pressing his forehead to the muzzle of Hank’s shanking Baretta. Effectively demonstrating the unfazed indifference he claims to hold with regard to his own existence. _A machine designed to accomplish a task._ It had send a shiver of pure terror down Hank’s spine. The sudden coldness and indifference, when before he had appeared so compassionate. Tender even, hoovering over him in Hank’s dirty bathroom. Hank had tried not to let himself get dragged in. Connor was a machine designed to infiltrated human life. He was supposed to be easily trusted. Supposed to _appear_ compassionate and trustworthy, when in reality it was all code. Connor’s doe-eyed face. His puppy look. The stupid curl of his hair falling boyishly over his forehead. All part of a carefully calculated and executed plan. A doe-eyed machine designed to elicit trust, to drag in and seduce unwary humans. Hank doesn’t think he has ever encountered anything more disgusting.

And yet, Hank had not been able to pull the trigger on him. Even if he had wanted to. Had imagined the scene in his head. Connor’s lifeless body stumbling to the ground. Blue stains of thick blood splattered across the white snow. The stupid kick-puppy look wiped form his face for once and for all -or at least for the rest of the night.

And yet-

Connor looks miserable and unsettlingly vulnerable in the passenger seat of his car. LED spinning in red. Eyes glazed over and unfocused. He’s breathing uneasily as he attempts to drag in air he doesn’t really need. For all intents and purposes, the android appears to be shell-shocked. Which should be impossible. _Unless-_ …Hank doesn’t know what to make of it.

 _I felt it die. Like I was dying. I was scared._ The words resonate in Hank’s ears. Connor’s shaky voice. The conviction in his words. Like his sleek veneer had suddenly been ripped open. Connor should not be able to feel traumatized. And yet, it makes even less sense for him to emulate being traumatized. 

“Do you want me to drop you off at CyberLife?” Hank asks. “Get repaired-..or somethin’.”

Connor’s fingers twitch in his lap. Panic, he shouldn’t be able to experience, clearly flickering across his face as his eyes dart around the confined space of Hank’s car. The LED springs to red. Connor remains silent. 

Hank drums his fingers against the steering wheel while he ponders his options. He can’t just drop him off at the corner of the street, like he usually does. -Doesn’t even know where the android goes when he’s not with him. An image of Connor in a white cleanroom flashes across Hank’s mind. CyberLife probably won’t take well to Connor’s current _emotional_ state. And the android appears unable to snap out of it right now.

Connor shivers slightly in the seat beside him. Hank turns up the heating and adjusts the vents to face his partner. He’s aware Connor probably isn’t cold, but he intends the gesture to be comforting nonetheless. Also, he has no idea what else to do.

Hank makes a decision. 

He knows it’s the right one, when Connor only seems to realize where they are going when Hank pulls up in front of his driveway. Connor turns to look at him again. Raising his eyebrows slightly as he inclines his head, looking a little bit more like his usual self despite the flashing red at his temple. He still isn’t really looking at Hank. 

“Get out of the car,” Hank instructs. For a couple of seconds Connor looks like he wants to object. But he doesn’t.

Instead, Connor wordlessly follows him inside and then stands uneasily in the middle of Hank’s living room. Like he has been misplaced. Sumo curiously sniffs around at his feet. Hank goes straight for the whisky in his kitchen cabinet. He pours himself a shot. Drinks it down in one swift gulp, grimaces briefly at the burning bitterness of the alcohol, then immediately goes for another one. He eyes Connor who’s still standing uncomfortably in the middle of his living room. Hank suddenly wishes he could offer the android a shot. Whisky probably isn’t the best comping mechanism. But it has its merits when under severe stress. 

Hank uneasily shifts his weight form one foot to the other. He waits for the burning sensation in his throat to subside.

“I need to take a look at your shoulder,” he eventually says, voice rough form the cheap whisky. 

Connor finally looks at him. It is the first time since the incident on the rooftop of the Startford Tower that he meets Hank’s eyes. His pupils are dilated, blown to an almost unnatural size. Eyes glistering wet. When usually Connor claims his space with an easiness Hank most of the time finds uncanny for a machine, he now looks completely out of place. Uncomfortable. Lost. Hank knows the feeling just all too well. 

Again, Connor looks like he wants to object. His brows drawn into a troubled frown. But then he nods and starts to shrugs out of his bloody suit jacket. 

There is more blood on the white button-up shirt underneath than Hank had expected. The wound hadn’t seemed to bleed at all, but the back and the front of Connor’s shirt are covered in blue. Hank winces at the sight. He ruefully decides against another shot of whisky and motions for Connor to follow him to the bathroom. 

Hank closes the door behind them to keep out Sumo.

Connor unbuttons his shirt. There is more blue blood covering his shoulder and parts of his chest where the bullet ripped through his artificial skin. Hank instructs the android to sit on the edge of his bathtub. He moves into Connor’s personal space to help him out of his shirt as the range of motion of his right arm appears to be restricted. Connor flinches at the motion and Hank tries to pull on his sleeve more gently.

“Easy-“ he mumbles against the side of the android’s head, his voice louder than he intends to in the confined space of his bathroom. 

He discards the blue stained shirt into the bathtub. At least the LED is down to yellow.

Hank leans in closer to inspect the damage. He puts his hand on Connor’s uninjured shoulder in order to steady himself and to keep the android still. Connor’s naked skin feels warm and smooth beneath Hank’s winter-dry fingertips. More real than Hank had expected. The bullet ripped a clear cut hole through Connor’s shoulder. It is no longer bleeding but Hank can clearly see the frantic flashing of blue wires and relays inside Connor’s chest. It smells like burned plastic. He feels the blood withdraw from his own face.

“It isn’t painful,” Connor’s voice calmly says close to his ear. He sounds more composed than before. One of Connor’s hands briefly curls itself around Hank’s wrist where he has it braced against the rim of the bathtub. 

Hank turns to look at him. Connor’s eyes are still glassy, but his features are suddenly soft and tender in the dimly lit bathroom. Like the night he picked up Hank from his kitchen floor. The LED spins yellow yellow yellow.

Hank instinctively backs up a little bit. Connor lets go of his wrist, but his eyes now follow his every move. 

“Should I – uhm – get this cleaned up?” Hank asks and motions at Connor’s bare chest. He wishes he hadn’t forgone the third shot of whisky. Sumo whines at the bathroom door. 

Connor nods slowly and Hanks turns around to retrieve a clean washcloth from the shelf beside the sink. He idly wonders if anyone at CyberLife would have gone to this length to patch up the android.

He runs the washcloth under the stream of cool water from the faucet longer than necessary. Silence fills the room when he turns the water off. He steps into Connor’s space again, leans slightly over him to look at the exit wound at his back. Connor’s skin is smooth and pale, small freckles and birthmarks dotting his skin even beyond the neckline. Hank makes a conscious effort not to look too closely. Instead, he concentrates on running the cool wet cloth gently over the skin around the exit wound. Connor slightly jumps and twitches beneath him at the sudden cool contact. Despite his better judgement, Hank brings his free hand to Connor’s uninjured shoulder again, holding him firmly in place. 

“Keep still,” he instructs, voice lower than intended.

He gently wipes at the blue stains on the back of Connor’s shoulder. Mindful not to get too close to the wound itself. Connor goes completely still beneath his numb fingers. Then he leans the side of his head against Hank’s ribcage, right below his arm. Just like that. As if they always do that. Hank freezes at the unexpected contact, taken aback by the intimacy of the gesture. _Strange_ , he thinks. He awkwardly leans back to look at Connor’s face. His eyes are closed, his brows drawn into a troubled frown, but Hank catches the LED switch to blue for the first time in hours. Hank swallows, uncertain of how to proceed. 

Something inside of him twists. He thinks about the barrel of his gun pressed to Connor’s forehead. The look of shock and hurt that had played over Connor’s doe-eyed features when he had drawn it. _Stand back. Step away_ , Hank thinks. _Don’t let yourself get dragged in._

He readies himself to do so. But then Connor signs, head pressing into Hank’s side and he is frozen in place. There is something excruciatingly intimate and vulnerable in Connor’s gesture. The complete trust and abandon he suddenly offers. Not unlike wining Sumo outside his bathroom door, Connor just puts his fate into Hank’s hands, trusts that he’ll take over for the both of them for the time being. Hank forces himself to concentrate on the task at hand and resumes wiping dried blood of off Connor’s back with slightly shaking fingers.

He thinks that the android might have fallen asleep against his midsection. He needs to move. Rinse out the bluely soaked washcloth. He isn’t even sure androids sleep at all but Connor’s breathing has become even. The length of his inhales matching his exhales. 

“Connor,” says Hank quietly. “Can you sit up?”

Connor lifts his head and gazes at him through half-lidded eyes. His features are softer now. He still doesn’t look much like his usual self. Form the very beginning Hank has been amazed by how expressive Connor’s face is – not just for an android, but in general. Connor has never been very good at hiding what the thinks, maybe even what he _feels_. All of it is always right there, palpable right beneath the surface. Now he looks exhausted. Vulnerable.

 _Human_.

Hank forces himself to step away. He catches the LED flicker briefly to yellow but then it switches to blue again. He awkwardly stumbles to the sink and rinses out the washcloth. He hurries it up this time, not wanting to risk the android to completely doze off at the edge of the bathtub.

Connor sits up a little bit straighter when he returns. He doesn’t look at Hank, but leans into the touch when Hank continues to wipe blue blood of off the front his shoulder. Right when the last stains of the blue blood are gone, Hank feels Connor’s hand curl around his wrist again. He slightly tucks at it to draw his attention.

Hank has no choice but to look at Connor. Unable to retreat due the android’s grip on his wrist. His eyes are completely open now. Puppy-look firmly in place again. 

“Thank you, Hank,” Connor says, brown lashes swiping over his pale cheeks. A sincerity to his voice that makes Hank’s heart skip a beat. He feels Connor’s long fingers twitch against his skin.

Hank is so close he could count the freckles on Connor’s face. He swallows visibly and forces himself to nod. Connor takes mercy on him and lets go of his writs. Hank immideately straightens to stand up.

He jerks his thumb towards the door, not quite trusting his own voice. “I’m- uhm- gonna get some bandages.”

Sumo immediately gets up from where he has taken residence behind the bathroom door and barges into the room when Hank opens the door. 

“Sumo. No.” 

The dog ignores him and makes his way towards Connor, putting his head on the android’s lap. Connor smiles. Finally. A real, honest smile. All dimples and glistering brown puppy eyes. He pets Sumo’s bulky head in his lap. Hank signs in defeat in the bathroom door. 

At least Connor looks more relaxed at the edge of his bathtub. His lean body again clamming the space around him more easily. For the fracture of a second, Hank even thinks that he looks like he belongs there. Bare chest, birthmarks and dimples, brown lashes over pale skin, a conscious tenderness in his movements that Hank is almost certain is impossible to be programmed. Connor is full of contradictions. 

Hank’s gut twits at the sight as the nagging realization is starting to dawn on him. 

None of this makes any sense. Connor has always been a bit of a lose canon as far as Hank is concerned. Acting on impulse far more often than seems advised for a law-enforcement android. His latest stunt on the rooftop of the Startford Tower notwithstanding. But they both know that Connor doesn’t really _need_ Hank. Except maybe for legal reasons. But with the country moving closer to the brink of civil war every day, even that becomes less and less important. If Connor wanted to assassinate the deviant leader terminator-style he would have been on his merry way by now, Hank figures. Instead, he’s sitting at the edge of Hank’s bathtub. Half-naked and still somewhat shaky, wide innocent eyes, gentle fingers absentmindedly petting Sumo’s big head. Looking like he’s always been there. So unless this isn’t all part of an exasperated ruse to drag Hank in deeper, there only remains one other reasonable explanation for Connor’s erratic behavior: Connor already turned or is turning deviant himself. And as if that wasn’t already fucked up enough, all evidence at hand points at Hank having had a significant role in his turning. And isn’t _that_ just really and truly fucked up. He should have dropped him at the corner of the street when he had the chance. Now it is too late for that. Now Hank actually feels responsible for the kid. 

Hank finally tears his gaze away and retrieves the first aid kit from the kitchen as well as a washed-out grey shirt from his closet. He shushes Sumo out of the way and hands Connor some band-aids. Connor unpacks them but then hands them back to him, head slightly inclined to the side, the puzzled frown Connor wears for a neutral face sliding in place again. Hank signs. He wants to ask questions. But he also wants Connor to reach the inevitable conclusion on his own. He takes the band-aids from Connor and gingerly places one over each bullet hole on his shoulder, pressing gently around the edges, covering up the flickering blue wires and relays. 

“There you go-,” he mumbles without meeting Connor’s eyes, “-good as new.”

Connor nods. The tinniest smile plays over his lips. Hank steps out of his personal space and throws the shirt at him, suddenly eager to establish some sense of normality between them again. Connor pulls the shirt over his head, still smiling slightly. It looks anything but normal. It’s too big, swallowing him whole, the DPD logo on its front almost completely faded. Now he really _does_ look goofy. But Connor still claims Hank’s space, Hank’s shirt, Hank’s trust and Hank’s affection with an easiness that Hank finds both dashing and uncanny at the same time. And somehow, just _somehow_ , Connor looks like he belongs there.

***


End file.
